SHOEMAKER'S 

BEST SELECTIONS 

For Re&.dings and Recitd^tions 

Nos. I to 27 Now Issued 

Pftp«r Bindinit* each number, « ^ « 30 cents 
Clotb •* " ** . • • SO cent* 

Teachers, Readers, Students, and all persons who 
have had occasion to use books of this kind, concede 
this to be the best series of speakers pubHshed. The 
different numbers are compiled by leading elocution- 
ists of the country, who have exceptional facilities for 
securing selections, and whose judgment as to their 
merits is invaluable. No trouble or expense is spared 
to obtain the very best readings and recitations, and 
much material is used by special arrangement with 
other publishers, thus securing the best selections 
from such American authors as Longfellow, Holmes, 
Whittier, Lowell, Emerson, Alice and Phoebe Gary, 
Mrs. Stowe, and many others. The foremost Eng- 
lish authors are also represented, as well as the 
leading French and German writers. 

* "Tl^s series was formerly called "The Elocution- 
ist's'Annual," the first seventeen numbers being pub- 
lished under that title. 

While the primary purpose of these books is to 
supply the wants of the public reader and elocution- 
ist, nowhere else can be found such an attractive col- 
lection of interesting short stories for home reading. 

Sold by all booksellers and newsdealers, or mailed 
upon receipt of price. 

The Penn Publishing Company 

226 5. nth Street, Philadelphia 



Betty's Ancestors 



A Play in One Act 



BY 



Ema M. Hunting 




PHILADELPHIA 

THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 

1913 



Copyright 1913 by The Penn PuiiLisHiNG Company 



TMP92-009169 

JUN 241915 

©CI.D 41033 



Betty's Ancestors 



CHARACTERS 



Betty Winslow 
Deborah Weston 



the last of the high house of Winslow 
whom, zuith everything else she 
possesses, Betty has inherited 

James O'Mara of Texas 

The Spayde Sisters, Ella and Bella, Gertie, Eva and 

Imogen sightseers 

Mrs. Austin C. Wellington ivho doesfi't care for relics 
Miss Elvira J. Moore . . 
Mrs. Freddie Hitchens . 
Mrs. Hitchens' Mother 
Great-great- Aunt Letitia ^ 



Ephraim Huntington 



James O'Mara 



who knows what she wants 

a very modern product 

who would rather sleep 

' a beauty of colo- 

7iial days 

first ambassador 
to the court of 
> Shades \ France 

Continental sol- 
dier of fortune 
and early western 
pioneer 



Note. — The cast may be all female, if preferred. Mrs. 
Wellington may double Aunt Letitia, Miss Moore may 
double Mrs. Hitchens' Mother. The parts of any of the 
three Shades may be taken by any of the Spayde Sisters, 
or by Mrs. Wellington, or by Miss Moore. One of the 
Spavdes may play young James O'Mara. 

Time of Playing. — One hour. 



STORY OF THE PLAY 

This play is recommended for use in high schools in con- 
nection with Washington's Birthday exercises, or for societies 
and clubs interested in colonial history or ancestry. 

Miss Betty VVinslow is the caretaker of the family man- 
sion, which has had a notable colonial history, and is now a 
museum, open to the public. Betty and her old compan- 
ion, Deborah Weston, though tired of being at the beck and 
call of sightseers, have no other means of support. Young 
James O'JMara of Texas has begged Betty to marry him, 
but in her family pride she has refused him. Betty repents, 
too late, when she has a letter saying he has gone back to 
Texas. In spite of her feelings she has to entertain sight- 
seers. Miss Moore, a businesslike school-teacher, Mrs. 
Wellington, who is looking for a new colonial society to join, 
Mrs. Hitchens, who is irreverent and flippant, her tired 
mother, and the Spayde sisters, who are a jolly lot and cheer 
Betty up. Among the relics is Great-great-Aunt Letitia's 
historic glove. Mrs. Hitchens wants to know where the other 
glove went. Betty doesn't know. 

But after the sightseers are gone Betty falls asleep, and in 
a dream sees something of the love story of Aunt Letitia, 
who married the man chosen for her by her family, but who 
loved James O'Mara, a soldier and adventurer. Betty sees 
Aunt Letitia at the bidding of her fiance bid good-bye to her 
lover and her happiness, and sees O'Mara take her glove. 
This solves the mystery of the missing glove, and also solves 
Betty's own problem. She wakes resolved to follow the dic- 
tates of her heart, and when young James O'Mara unexpect- 
edly returns he kisses her, unresisting. 



COSTUMES 

Betty Winslow. At first a pretty, up-to-date, blue silk 
dress. Later, after her second entrance, a quaint costume 
in the style of the early eighteenth century. This niigiit be 
of pink brocade, made with a flat, pointed waist, the neck 
and sleeves filkd in with old lace, the skirt long and vo- 
luminous, with a slight train ; the whole veiled with an over- 
dress or shawl of lace. The hair may be done high, with 
curls behind the ears, surmounted with a tiny lace cap. 
Probably some real gown, a family heirloom, may be bor- 
rowed for the occasion. 

Deborah Weston. She is a neat, handsome, thrifty 
woman from "down east" in Maine. She wears a light 
print house dress with starchy white apron. 

James O'Mara. When he represents the shade, the 
character should wear the dress of the early pioneer. A 
long military cape conceals his person; a colonial cocked 
hat, or a beaver turned up on one side may be used ; heavy 
gauntlets, boots and spurs. He wears a sword, and "his 
own hair" is tied at the neck with a ribbon. He speaks 
with just a trace of the Irish accent. Later, as the young 
man from Texas, he wears a long ulster and traveling cap 
or broad brimmed hat, and carries a bag. The two O'Maras 
may be represented by different people, but this is not 
necessary. 

Great-gueat-Aunt Letitia. The familiar colonial cos- 
tume — powdered hair, panniers, long, pointed bodice, satin 
petticoat and high-heeled shoes. 

Ephraim Huntington. The dress of the fop of the 
colonial period. Embroidered waistcoat, satin breeches, 
long coat with bright-colored flaps, lace ruffles at throat and 
v/rist, silk stockings and buckled shoes. He wears a light 
dress sword, and carries a snuff-box and lace handkerchief. 

The Spayde Sisters. Pretty, rather elaborate clothes, 
in the extreme of style. The twins are dressed exactly alike, 
and look boyish. Eva is decidedly of the " Fluffy Ruffles " 
type. Imogen tries to look intellectual, and Gertie is whole- 
some and handsome. 

Mrs. Austin C. Wellington. A large, mild lady, pretty 



6 PROPERTIES 

in spite of her ten children. She wears a black bonnet and 
shawl, voluminous black skirts, and carries an ample hand 
satchel from wliich she takes her crochet work. 

Miss Elvira J. Moore. She is forty-five, a school- 
teacher from Indiana. The tilt of her hat and its sharp 
quill follow exactly the lines of her nose and chin. She 
wears a skirt made over from one of her mother's, a tight 
black jacket cut off short at the hips with a sharp flare be- 
hind, and a black fur collarette with a high collar turned up 
around her ears. She carries a guide-book to Boston and 
environs, a note-book and pencil. She stands on the balls 
of her feet (rubber heels) and she does not wear a — that is, 
her figure is her own. 

Mrs. Freddie Hitchens. A diminutive person, over- 
dressed, the rings rattling on her skinny little hands, but 
possessed of an energy that drives everything and everybody 
before it. Her mother is a dumpling of a woman whose 
sole endeavor is to move fast enough to keep within sight of 
her daughter. 



PROPERTIES 



The relics of colonial days mentioned in the dialogue can 
usually be obtained in any community where an interest in 
such things exists; or if these particular articles cannot be 
found, others equally appropriate may be substituted by 
slightly changing the lines. Any other objects of interest 
may be displayed on the stage; and no small part of the in- 
terest of producing this little play will result from collecting 
the heirlooms of the neighborhood and stimulating interest 
and pride in them. 

Properties required for Deborah, flowers, letter, dust 
cloth, broom, handkerchief, lighted candle in brass candle- 
slick ; for Miss Moore, book ; for The Spavdes, books, 
hand-bags, muffs, gloves; for Betty, long white glove; for 
Huntington, snuff-box ; for Letitia, long white gloves. 



SCENE PLOT 

/ tNURIOR. BACKING \ 




Scene. — Parlor of an old colonial mansion. Doors up c. 
and L. Window or fireplace k., if desired, but neither is 
necessary. Table and chair of colonial design down R. A 
spinning-wheel and an antique sofa or couch down L. 
" Grandfather's clock " up r. Other furniture and decora- 
tions as desired, but all should be colonial. 

On walls up R. and L. are frames large enough for por- 
traits, full length or at least three-quarter length. They are 
covered with dark hangings, and behind them are other cur- 
tains to serve as background for the persons who pose as 
portraits. 

If desired the frames may stand across the corners of the 
room, up R. and l., with entrances behind them, or space 
for actors to remain until they enter. 



Betty's Ancestors 



SCENE. — A quaint old room, supposed to be the parlor in 
an old colonial mansion. There should be a door at 
back center, communicating with the entrance hall of the 
house ; another, leading to the interior apartments, mid- 
way of the left zvall. Just beyond this door, on the left, 
hangs the portrait of Gkeat-gkeat-AxjntI^etitia, repre- 
sented by tJie frame ; opposite, a similar frame to indicate 
the companion portrait of her husband. Both are life- 
size and concealed by draperies. Behind the frames, a 
second set of draperies should be so arranged as to reprc' 
sent the background of the paintings, and also to conceal 
the openings by which the characters enter. If tlie play 
is to be given in a parlor 7vhich does not have doors con- 
veniently placed for this purpose, the frames may be set 
across the back corners of the room, leaving space where 
the characters may remain throughout the action of the 
play. In the right wall there should be, if possible, a 
windoiv. At the right also, well down stage, is placed 
the table and armchair referred to in the text of the play. 
There should be a couch, several chairs, etc. — all of 
quaint, old-time design. 

(^As the curtain rises, Deborah Weston is placing some 
flowers in a vase on the table, down R. She looks crit- 
ically around the room, running her finger along polished 
surfaces in search of dust, etc. The tall grandfather^ s 
clock chimes two.^ 

Deborah. Two o'clock ! {She hurries to the door L. 
and calls.) Bettina, do you know it's two o'clock, and this 
house may be full of people in three minutes ? 

Betty Winslow {outside). I'm hurrying, Deb ! 

Deborah {sniffing). Hurrying ? You're primping, that's 
what you are doing. This house is open for visitors every 
Wednesday afternoon from two till four without fail, and has 
been, rain, snow or brimstone, for the last thirty years, ever 

9 



10 BETTY S ANCESTORS 

since I moved in and took charge; and not a soul, not one 
soul has been turned away from them steps nor will be 
while I'm here to let 'em in, even if the poet's only grand- 
daughter 

Bktty {still outside). Now, Debbie — don't get nervous. 
Buck up 

Deborah. What ? Buck up ? {A burst of laughter 
answers her. She shuts the door and comes down stage, 
sputtering.') Buck up ! That's language, I must say, to 
come from the granddaughter in direct descent, unbroken, 
of the Father of New England Verse ! She gets it from 
that cowboy, that's what she does; and if he comes around 
here this VVednesday and wants to see a forebear and Gen- 
eral Washington's queue 

Betty {calling through a crack of the door). Debbie — 
shut your eyes ! 

Deborah. Shut my eyes? What on earth 

Betty {as before). Hurry ! And turn your back. {As 
Deborah, still grumbling, does as she is bid, Betty flings 
open the door and comes in on tiptoe. She is flushed, radi- 
ant, excited. She slips up behind the housekeeper, strikes a 
pose with a flourish.) Behold,, woman ! (Deborah, obey- 
ing, turns and looks, and throivs up her hands in astonish- 
ment.) Well — what's the matter, Deb? Don't you like 
my dress ? 

Deborah {sloivly). What in the name of common sense 
has gotten into you ? 

Betty {breathlessly gay). Nothing has gotten into me — 
it's on the outside ! {She pirouettes on her toes, her arms 
above her head, then takes a lo?ig step to show her modish 
skirt.) Look at that, Deb ! {Giggles.) Isn't that a 
scream ? 

Deborah. A scream ? Bettina Winslow ! 

Betty. That slipped, Debbie 

Deborah. Yes, you're right it slipped, and it slipped 
right straight from Mr. James O'Mara, that's where it 
slipped from. That gentleman cowboy that we've seen so 
much of lately. Oh, don't talk to me about slipping ! 1 
know all about 

Betty {coaxing her). Now, Debbie — dear old Deb- 
bie 

Deborah {inflexible'). And I know all about this new- 
fangled dress idea. Nobody ever heard a word about new 



BETTYS ANCESTORS II 

dresses until four weeks ago to-day — and four weeks ago 
to-day was the first day that Mr. James O'Mara favored us 
with a call — and every Wednesday since. 

Betty. But, Debbie 

Deborah. Every Wednesday, Bettina Winslow ! Comes 
sniilin' up to the door and says he's crazy about ancestors 
and is thinkin' of gettin' him some, and haven't we half a 
dozen or so to spare — though I dare say he has plenty of 'em 
that he wouldn't be proud to own over in Ireland. 

Betty {warmly^. His people have been in this country 
since the Revolution. 

Deborah (scornfully^. That's what he says. And de- 
claring he'll never believe about Paul Revere and the lan- 
terns until we show him the skull of the horse the poor man 
rode, and how he just loves to sit among these sweet relics 
of the past and let their soothing influence steal over him — 
influence ! You couldn't move that young man, not if you 
was to fasten a block and tackle to him. — And had the im- 
pudence to ask me if I'd get him a pass into the D. R. — • 
said he'd always wanted to be a Daughter ! What does he 
want here, anyhow ? 

Betty. Want ? Why, I — you see he's in the cattle 
business, and sells land 

Deborah. Oh ! The cattle business ? I see ! That's 
the reason he puts in every Wednesday afternoon looking 
at Revolutionary relics. Wants to describe them to the 
cows when he gets back home, I s'pose ! 

Betty (at the window). I suppose he has a right to go 
sightseeing if he wants to? (Turfis.^ Anyhow, I don't 
see what he has to do with my new dress. 

Deborah. You don't? Humph! Well, I do. Where'd 
you get it ? 

Betty. Made it. You'd never guess what from. 

Debouah. It looks to me like 

Betty. It is — Aunt Emilie's blue brocade. 

Deborah. You don't mean to tell me that you cut up 
your Aunt Emilie's blue brocade that she wore to President 
Buchanan's inaugural ball and made it into — that ? 

Betty. Yes — and got the whole thing out of the skirt. 
Isn't it lucky that we used to go this way, and now we go 
this way ? (She makes ,^estures to indicate first the hoop- 
skirt and then the close-Jilting modern garment.) And why 
shouldn't I cut it up ? What good was it doing me that she 



12 BETTY S ANCESTORS 

wore it to a dance and had a good time in it ? You know 
very well I had to use some old thing — I couldn't have any- 
thing new. I've never had anything new in my life. I've 
never had anything but ancestors-^and I'm sick and tired 
of them ! 

Deborah. Betty Winslow ! 

Betty. I am ! I'm sick of being supported by an his- 
torical society just because my name is Winslow, and being 
kept here on exhibition like the other relics, and I won't 
wear that old rag of Great-great-Aunt Letitia's and make a 
spectacle of myself any more ! 

Deborah. Bettina Winslow ! You, with your name, 
and your illustrious family and your Great-great-Aunt 
Letitia herself hanging right there and hearing you call 
her dress that she wore before the crowned heads of Europe 
a rag ! (She points to the portrait.^ 

Betty. I don't care — it wasn't a hundred years old 
when she wore it, and it was in style ! You didn't catch 
her wearing her great-great-aunt's dress ! {Puts her arms 
aroinid Debokah's neck. ^ Don't scold, Debbie ! I wanted 
to feel — to-day — that J, just my very own self, am alive — 
now. {Moves away.) Oh, it's so .good to be alive — ^just 
alive. Deb, and young 

Deborah. VVhat's that cowboy been saying to you? 

Betty. Why, n-nothing. He's been telling me about 
Texas, you know — it's a great place — and — an-d — besides, 
he isn't a cowboy, Debbie Weston ! He's a cattleman. 
And he sells land, whole counties at once — ^just sells 'em off 
as if it wasn't anything. That's what he came East for. 

Deborah. And is he trying to sell you a county? 

Betty. Oh, no — h-he — no, he doesn't want to sell nie 
any 

Deborah, Bettina Winslow — has that man proposed to 
yon ? 

Betty. Oh, yes — every Wednesday — (Deborah collapses 
into a chair, vp l., throwi7ig her apron over her head) ex- 
cept the first one ! {She runs to Deborah atid puts her 
arms around her.) And 1 didn't accept him, not once, 
Debbie — honest I haven't 

Deborah {wailing behind her apron). A Winslow — a 
Winslow ! 

Betty {springing vp). Yes — a Winslow ! Why not ? 
If some Winslow 'way, 'way back hadn't made up his mind 



BETTY S ANCESTORS 



13 



to go West in tliat leaky old tub of a "Mayflower," we 
wouldn't have been heard of from that day to this ! What 
are we, anyhow ? Just the descendants of a good, solid, 
middle-class, hard-working Englishman who had sense 
enough and courage enough to get out of his rut. (^Afoves 
about the room.) It's the spirit of my ancestors, Debbie — 
that's what is pulling me. "Go West, young man, go 
West!" "Life, liberty, and the pursuit of — happiness!" 
(^She kneels again beside the housekeeper, coaxing the apron 
down.) Oh, Debbie, don't you see.? I'm young — young — 
just as Mary Winslow was when she dared to leave her 
home and come to the new land — and just see what a fuss 
people make over her. Debbie — smile — there's a dear. 

Why, you'll love Texas Debbie, you were young, 

too — don't you remember 

Deborah {jjuite melted, but trying to maintain her stand). 
I didn't have men proposing to me every Wednesday, if 
that's what you mean ! 

Betty. But didn't you wish they would ? {Unable to 
resist the girl, Deborah looks at her ; they both laugh, and 
fall into each other' s arms, laughing, talking, half crying 
all at once. In the midst of their excitement, the do or -bell 
rings. The girl draivs back at arm' s length, and the two 
look again into each other s eyes, this time with complete 
understanding. Bettv, in a whisper.) Y-you go to the 
door, Deb 

Deborah (/// a burst of motherly feeling, drawing the 
girl back into her arms). Dearie 

Betty. I won't go to Texas without you, Deb — I 

won't {Tliey rise. Betty dries Deborah's tears 

with her own handkerchief, laughing, excited, feverishly 
happy.) Now you're all right. Deb — now run — no, don't 
run ! That wouldn't do at all. Walk, Deb — and don't 
look as if you knew anything — ^just go — go 

(Deborah goes out into the hall. Betty tries in vain to 
quiet her own excite7Jient, stands very straight, attempts 
a haughty look, takes up a pose on the sofa expressing 
supreme indifference, jumps up at a sound and practices 
walking about in her netv narrow skirt. As she hears 
Deborah returning, §he starts toward the door at center 
back, and stands so, her back to the audience, as Deborah 
returns alone, a letter in her hand.) 



14 BETTY S ANCESTORS 

Deborah. It was the postman, 
Betty. The — postman, Deb? 
Deborah. Yes. He left a letter for you. 

(Betty fakes the letter. Deborah comes dc>7£'n stage r. Still 
without turning, Betty opens the letter and reads. The 
envelope falls from her hand. There is a long pause.') 

Betty {without turning, in a chariged voice). Deborah 
— he has gone. 

Deborah. Gone 

Bettv. Back to Texas. He — wrote to tell me so. He 
says, " I am going back to-day. If I wait to see you again, 
I'll never go. And I've been thinking about you, growing 
there among those sweet old things, like a rose in an old- 
fashioned garden. You were quite right to refuse me; I 
reckon it wouldn't do to break you off and carry you out on 
the plains. You'd never take root, d-dear — you'd droop 
and — die." 

(^She turns slowly. Her hand falls, crushing the letter. 
Suddenly it falls fro7n her fingers, and with a little cry, 
like that of a child 7vho has been hurt, she covers her eyes 
and sta7ids S7vaying. ) 

Deborah. Darling — Deborah's own little 

Betty {sharply). Don't ! {After a pause, tensely.) 
It was the relics and the name and this great useless house 
that drove him away from me, and I hate them ! 
Deborah. Betty 

{The door-bell rings. With an effort, Betty controls her- 
sef. Her hands fall at her sides, her face groins quite 
expressionless, the life and color gone. She speaks 
quietly.) 

Betty. Will you take care of the people who come? 
{She moves toward the door, l.) I am going up — to change 
my dress. 

Deborah {exploding^. Bettina Winslow ! I've been in 
this house thirty years and I've never refused a thing you've 
told me nor your mother before y9u nor I never will, nor 
nobody shall say I ever did, but when you tell me to " look 
after the people " while my own blessed lamb that I'd give 



Betty's ancestors 15 

my eyes for is up-stairs breaking her heart over a no-account 

cowboy that goes off half-coclced to Texas 

Betty (Jiotly). Stop ! {^Her self-control dotnitiates Deb- 
orah. She speaks slowly.) This house is open to visitors 
every Wednesday afternoon no — matter — what — happens. 

{Very proudly, with her head high, she opens the door, and 
goes out L. The door-bell rings again. With a deep 
sigh, shaking her head in sad perplexity, Deborah goes 
to admit the visitor. After a moment, the murmur of a 
voice approaches, and Mrs. Austin C. Wellington ap- 
pears in the doorway — talking. She has a sweet, mon- 
otonous voice that flows on evenly and ceaselessly like 
Teiinyson' s brook.') 

Mrs. W. {continuifig as she enters'). — yes, Mrs. Aus- 
tin C. Wellington. Austin C. There's some other plain 
Austins up Maine way, but I've looked them all up and they 
aren't no relation. My husband's folks came from Vermont 
state and settled in Maryland first before they moved to 
Illinois, so there's Wellingtons all the way from the Atlantic 
to the Mississippi. I was a Pickens — ever see any Pick- 
enses? Josiah Pickens came from Dorchester, England, in 
1659, and he married Mary Norton. Her father was a 
minister; and their son married Sallie Coolidge, and she 
died and then he married Emily Burridge and she was the 
third daughter of Amos Burridge and his wife was'a Russell. 
And their son was Emery Pickens and he's the one that 
married a Adams and went down to Maryland — and that's 
the way I'm related to the Quincys and the Hancocks and 
all them. You've heard tell of them. What's your name? 
Are you a Winslow ? 

Deborah {snappishly). My name is Weston, ma'am. 

Mrs. W. Weston? Where from— Maine? I thought 
so. There was Westons that married into the Wellington 
family up there. Obadiah Weston. But that line never 
amounted to very much. It died out pretty soon, all but a 
{q.\v branches around Bangor. I s'pose you come from one 
of them. 

Deborah. You appear to me to know a mighty lot about 
people's families ! 

Mrs. W. {settling down on the sofa. She takes some 
crochet zvork from her bag, and goes placidly to work). 



i6 Betty's ancestors 

Oh, land, yes ! I just got a pattern here I want to finish, 
but I can talk just the same. Yes, I took up geneology 
after my eighth come, and I been studying it off and on 
ever since. After I'd had five I knew I had to do some- 
thing to talie my mind off 'n 'em. First it was verbenas. 
1 had fifty-nine varieties of verbenas growin' in my garden 
at the same time, and I could tell you the names of every 
one of 'em, popular and botanical. Then it began to get 
crowded keepin' them in the house over winter, so I took 
up geneology. That's lasted me all through the whole ten, 
and now that the girls are all away and doin' their own 
sewin', I been joinin' the societies. I belonged to eleven 
one time, but 1 dropped the sewing circle and the Willing 
Workers. I'd had them two societies of my own right at 
home ever since I was married, and I didn't feel like payin' 
dues to 'em. That's what I come to see about today. Do 
you know any more 'round here I could join? 

Debokah. Societies ? 

Mrs. W. Yes, Daughters or Dames or somethin' like 
that. I belong to all there is out in Illinois. I'm four 
Daughters, a Mayflower Descendant, and a Colonial Dame 
now, not countin' Royal Neighbors and such. But I heard 
there was lots of historical societies around here, and I 
thought I'd come out to-day and ask about 'em — I'm visitin' 
my fourth over in Boston. There's the Society of Collegiate 
Alumnises, but I don't know as I care much about that. I 
joined the New England Historic Geneological Society yes- 
terday, and 1 sent my application in to the American 
Academy of Arts and Sciences — thought maybe I could 
tell them something about verbenas. I'd like to join the 
Daughters of Maine — I was down in Maine once; I liked it 
real well — and the Daughters of Sons of Veterans. Where 
do they meet ? 

Deborah (c). But you weren't borne in Maine ! 

Mrs. W. Oh, no, but I thought I'd like to be another 
Daughter. I'm a Daughter of the American Revolution, 
Daughter of Vermont, Daughter of Early Immigrants to 
Southern Illinois — Egypt, some folks call it — and a King's 
Daughter, but I thought I'd like to join some more. 

Deborah {Jielplessly^. Don't you want to see the relics? 

Mrs. W. No, I don't care much about relics. Unless 
you got some good crochet patterns, crochet or tattin'. I'm 
sort of vvorkin' into crochet now I've joined most of the 



BETTY S ANCESTORS 



17 



societies. I never finish anything, you know, just get pat- 
terns. {The bell rings S) There, you're goin' to have com- 
pany. {Puts up her ^vork.) Well, if you see any of them 
Austin Wellingtons when you go back to Maine you might 
say you met me, but they aren't any kin to my husband's 
family because I looked up the whole outfit in the 

{Her 7vords trail off into incoherence as she a?id Deborah 
go down the hall. After a moment, Deborah appears, 
standing stiffly in the doorway and pointing into the 
room.^ 

Deborah. Yes, ma'am. This is the house of the poet 
Winslow, and unfortunately it is open to the general public. 
And this is the poet's study where he wrote "Lines to a 
Purple Flower " and it is supported by the State Historical 
Society, and if you care to see the relics — come in ! 

{She steps aside, and Miss Elvira J. Moore, 0/ Indiana, 
appears i?t her place.) 

Miss Moore. Humph ! This is it, is it ? {She looks 
sharply around the room as if each object Were a pupil whom 
she had under her eye; tlien produces tlie guide-book and 
reads. ^ "Here may be seen the study of the poet where 
for many years he lived and wrote ; and where are preserved 
interesting relics of the Winslow family dating as far back as 
the times of Col. George Winslow, of the Continental army, 
who gave the mansion to his daughter Letitia, on the oc- 
casion of her marriage to Ephraim Huntington. The relics 
are in charge of the poet's granddaughter, and may be seen 

every Wednesday afternoon " Are you the poet's 

granddaughter ? 

Deborah {glaring^. I am not ! 

Miss Moore {also glaring'). Well, I'm sure I'm not ! 
Deborah. I'm sure it's a matter of entire indifference to 
me vvho you are ! 

Miss Moore. And I'm sure it would not inconvenience 
me in the least if you did not so much as exist ! Wh;it 1 am 
interested in is these relics. I came all the way from In- 
diana to visit spots of historical interest, and I'm going to 
see every spot within thirty miles or know the reason why. 
That's what the school board sent me for. They snid, 
" Miss Moore " — my name is Elvira J. Moore — " we've de- 
led to separate the eighth grade from the seventh, and we 



i8 Betty's ancestors 

haven't a teacher in the building that we'd trust with it but 
you. Now," they says, " if there's anything you want to 
get started with — in reason — in reason — ^just you feel free to 
name it." I says, "Mr. Winter" — he's been boss of that 
board for the last twenty years — but I gave him the shock 
of his life that day — I says, " Mr. Winter, there's just one 
thing, and that's history. Not dates ; I've got dates all right, 
and names and battles and generals 3 but what 1 want is 
background. I want to get up before my class and say, 
' Here. You lake from page eighteen to the end of the 
chapter to-morrow and you learn it. And everything you 
find in there is so — because I've seen the place where it hap- 
pened ! ' Now," I says, " that's what I want to tell those 
youngsters ; and I want you to pay half my expenses while 
I goon a two weeks' trip visiting historical spots in the East." 
Well — I thought it would kill him. He says, " I meant 
blackboards and erasers and — and maybe a map or two." 
But he came 'round. Oh, you bet he did I I've known 
Frank Winter for the last twenty-five years, and if his wife 
knew him half as well as I do she wouldn't be wearing her 
Grandmother Perkins' black silk, turned, on Sundays. 
What's that ? 

Deborah {snapping'). A lantern. 

Miss Moore. A lantern ? What lantern ? 

Deborah. The lantern that Col. George Winslow carried 
when he went to the Boston Tea Party — several years before 
you were born. 

Miss Moore. Humph ! 

Deborah. Anything else you would like to know? 

Miss Moore. Nothing that you could tell me ! 

Deborah. I'm obliged to you, ma'am ! 

Miss Moore. I shall go immediately to the Fopp's Hill 
Burying Ground ! 

Deborah. You couldn't do anything that would please 
me better ! 

Miss Moore. Humph ! {She marches to the door, stops, 
and turns back for a parting sJtot.') There isn't a relic in 
the place that I'd be seen carrying to a Salvation Army 
Rummage Sale ! 

(Exit, colors flying.') 

Deborah {glaring after her). Of all the natural, dyed- 
in-the-wool, pressed-down-and-running-over impudence ! 



BETTY S ANCESTORS IQ 

{She goes to door l., opens it aiid calls. ^ Bettina, if you 
tlon't get down here and attend to tliese inflated question 
marks from the Mississippi Valley there'll be another Bat- 
tle of Bunker Hill right here ! {Slams the door.) " What 
lantern?" "Are you the poet's granddaughter?" She 
wouldn't dare go to a Salvation Army sale — though they'd 
have to put her in a surprise package, sight unseen, to get 
rid of her. {T/ie bell rings.) Another of 'em ! {She 
goes back to door L., and calls.') Bettina, there'll be mur- 
der committed if I have to see another of these 

Bettv {outside). Be there in a minute, Debbie. 

Deborah. Humph ! 

{She thro70S up her hands and marches to the hall door. A 
moment later a flutter of chatter, laughter, ladylike squeals, 
cries ofdelis^ht, etc. , are heard approaching doivii the hall, 
and the five Spayde sisters burst simultaneously into tlie 
room and stand with clasped hands.) 

The Spaydes {ecstatically). Oh — girls! 

Gertie. How sweet ! 

Eva. Too cute ! 

Imogen. Such a literary atmosphere ! 

The Twins. Say, ain't it grand ? 

All. Oh — girls ! 

Deborah. Oh — cat's foot ! 

Gertie {turning to her). Did you say the poet's study? 
Girls, the poet's study ! 

Eva {gushingly). What did he study ? 

Imogen. Eva Spayde — study! He created. 

Gertie. Cre-ated? Oh, yes, dear. {To Deborah.) 
Imogen is so literary ! 

The Twins (/^Deborah). Are you her? 

Imogen. Gertie — really! Did you hear that? "Are 
you her? " 

The Twins. Well, ain't that all right? 

Imogen. " Ain't ! " 

Ella. Well, what's hurting you ? 

Imogen. You talk so — common ! 

Bella. Piffle ! 

Gertie {shocked). Girls ! {To Deborah, apologetic- 
ally.) Imogen is so sensitive to language, and the twins are 
so impulsive ! 



20 BETTY S ANCESTORS 

The Twins. We ain't, either ! We want to see Betty ! 

Deborah. You want to see Betty? 

The Twins (speaking alternately, and very fast'). Yes. 

Miss 

Bettina Winslow, grand 

Daughter of the 



Poet Winslow who in 

Herils much of his 

Charm of manner 

And the beauty of 

Her gieat-great-aunt 

Letitia, who 

Married Ephraim Huntington 

P'irst minister to the court of France- 



(^Together.') For further details see chapter entitled 
"Living Descendants of Our Illustrious Men." 

Ella. You left out "and is affectionately known as 
Betty to the large circle of friends " — and all that. 

Bella, I didn't no such thing ! That comes from 
"Living Descendants." 

Ella. Why, Bella Spayde ! 

Bella. It does, too ! 

Ella. I'm going to ask her ! 

Bella. Why, Ella Spayde ! 

Imogen. Gertie, can't you stop this wrangling? It is so 
common ! 

Gertie. Girls ! 

Eva. Oh, might we see the poet's granddaughter? 

Deborah. Well, I hope so — and pretty quick ! (She 
goes to the door L., and calls.) Bettina ! There's a picnic 
party here that wants to see a Living Descendant ! 

Betty (otttside). Yes, Debbie. {\)YX,o\<kYi stalks grimly 
to the hall door. The Spaydes draw close together in a 
breathless ro7V opposite the door l. The door opens slowly, 
and Betty enters, dressed in the "rag" ^t/ Great-great- 
AuNT Letitia's. She is very quiet, the vivacity and life of her 
earlier entrance gofie.) Did you wish to see me? 

The Spaydes {in a long-drawn breath of ecstasy). Oh 
— girls ! 

Geutie. How sweet ! 

Eva. Too cute ! 

Imogen. Just like a heroine ! 

The Twins. Ain't she grand ! 



BETTY S ANCESTORS 21 

All. Oh — girls ! . 
Deborah. Oh — Lord ! 

Bettv. If you are busy in tlie kitchen, Deborah, we 
won't detain you. 

(^Exit Deborah, sniffing.) 

The Twins. Is she the hired girl ? 

Imogen. Gertie, make them stop ! Nobody says " hired 
girl " any more ! 

Gertie. Girls ! You mustn't mind them, Miss Winslovv. 
The twins are so impulsive, bless their dear little hearts ! 

(The Twins resent this fiercely.) 

Betty. Are you twins ? 

The Twins. Uh-huh. 

Betty. And are you all sisters ? 

All. Uh-huh. 

Eva. Let's call the roll. 

{Tiiey draw closer toget/ier in a roWR., linking arms.) 

Gertie. Gertie Margerite 

Eva. Eva Arabella 



Imogen. Imogen Linconetta Mae 

The Twins. Ella and Bella 

All. Spayde. (^They bow.) 

Betty {jitting o?i couch). Spayde ? 

Gertie. Yes, that's our name — Spayde. Isn't it funny ? 
Some people call us the five spot of spades, and make jokes 
about following suit and all that sort of thing 

Imogen. And some people call us Spuds, but that 
sounds so common ! 

Eva. We believe in calling a Spayde a Spayde ! 

The Twins. And everybody says we're simply the 
Deuce ! 

Gertie. We are all so different and such a happy family, 
it's interesting to strangers. The twins, dear children, are 
such vivacious, unexpected little dears 

The Twins {walking about, looking at relics). Aw, cut 
it out ! 

Imogen {sitti7ig l.). Gertie, do you allow them to talk 
slang ? 

Gertie {coming doivn and sitting by Betty, l.). Imo- 



22 BETTY S ANCESTORS 

gen is the brilliant one of the family — yes, you are, dear ! 
She has such a command of language, and is always cliosen 
to read Lincoln's speech at Gettysburg on Decoration Day 
m the opera house. Dear, recite for Miss Winslow that 
little thing you gave at Mayor Mulligan's — do ! 

Eva {crossing L. and sittins; by Betty). Oh, do, 'Genie ! 

Imogen. Oh, I don't think Miss Winslow would care 
to — and that is such a simple little thing 

Betty. I would be very glad if you would. 

Imogen. I don't know whether I can get my atmosphere. 
Girls, sit down. 

(The Twins, not paying attention, are eagerly inspecting 
some swords, old muskets, etc., in a corner, front. Im- 
ogen rises, makes elaborate preparations to create her 
'* atmosphere,'''' sweeping t/ie liair from lier broiv, clearing 
her throat, spreading out her arms, etc., finally fixing her 
eyes on a corner of tJie ceiling, and proclaiming a few 
words in a voice totally unlike her ordinary tones. Any 
short, ultra-sentimental selection may be chosen which per- 
mits of exaggerated gestures. After a word or two, she 
interrupts herself, to say in her natural voice, " I forgot 

to tell you iC s entitled ' .' " ^\\ and Q^\<i\£. listen 

with rapt attention ; Betty with sojne astonisJiment. Im- 
ogen once more ivorks up her atmosphere and makes a 
fresh start, but after a word or two, The Twins, sud- 
denly becoming cotiscious of what is taking place, inter- 
rupt with intense disgust.') 

The Twins. Oh, gee ! 

Imogen (arrested with her mouth wide opeti). Gertie ! 

Gertie. Girls ! 

Ella. Well, do we have to listen to that again ? 

Bella. I thought we came to look at relics, not to listen 
to 'em. 

Betty. But I have never heard it — and I'm sure it will 
be — unusual. Miss Imogen, won't you recite it for me ? 

Imogen. There, smarties ! 

(The Twins subside; and after another struggle to cre- 
ate ^' atmosphere,^' Imogen triumphantly coinpletes her 
^' piece, ^^ and stands modestly awaiting her plaudits. 
Eva and Gertie applaud heartily. ) 



BETTY a ANCESTORS 



23 



Betty. Thank you so much. 

Gertie. Wasn't that splendid? 

Jmogen. Gertie ! 

Bettv. It — it was astonishing ! 

Gertie. There, Imogen, what did I tell you? Now sit 
down and rest a while, dear. Now what was I telling you, 
Miss Winslow? Oh, yes — about us. Well, and Eva is 
engaged ! 

Eva. Oh, Gertie ! 

Gertie. Well, Eva, you know you are. He's a fine 
young man, no bad habits, good profile, and dreadfully in 
love — now, Eva, don't deny it. Don't you want him to 
be ? That's partly what we came to the city for — to get 
Eva's — (/// a 7nodest whisper^ things. While the white 
sales are on, you know. 

Betty. And what about you ? 

Gektie. Oh — I look after tliem, you know. The twins 
are really quite a responsibility. But now won't you tell us 
about yourself? 

(The Twins come closer to listen.^ 

Betty. I ? There's nothing to tell. I — I just live here, 
with Debbie, and take care of the relics and show them 
and — that's all. 

The Twins. Don't you have no fun? 

Betty. Well — I go out to tea sometimes. 

Imogen. But it's a great privilege to breathe such an 
intellectual atmosphere ! 

EvA. And you are so pretty, dear — I'm sure you have 
a lover. 

Betty. No. Oh, no — I haven't any 

Gertie. And haven't you any sisters ? 

Betty. I haven't anything — but ancestors. And relics. 
I never had anything in my life that belonged to me. Not 
even my name. I get the Bettina from Cousin Bettina 
Danvers and the Fairfax from mother's family. Why, 
even my hair — my hair isn't mine ! It comes from Great- 
grandmother Winslow — that is, the color does. The curl 
belongs to Nancy Fairfax. 

The Spaydes.' Oh — girls ! 

Betty. Oh, I'd trade every ancestor I ever had for just 
one — ^just one — sister ! 



24 BETTY S ANCESTORS 

(^She sir etches out her hands in unconscious appeal.^ 

The Spaydes. Oh — girls! (^They group themselves 
around her, patting and petting her, as she cries with her 
face hidden on Gertie's shoulder, with little coos and cries 
of sympathy.') Oh, the poor little thing ! You sweet child ! 
Come right home with us ! etc. 

Betty {springing up at last and laughing). How horrid 
this is of me, when you came all the way to see me ! Won't 
you let me show you the relics ? 

Gertie. No, indeed ! Will we, girls ? You are tired 
out and all done up — I knew it the minute I saw you. You 
go right up and lie down and have that — Imogen, what are 
they called ? — the help — you have the help bring you a cup 
of steeped flaxseed and lemon — hot. If it weren't for the 
twins I'd stay and take care of you myself. Now, girls — 
get your things together ! 

(The Spaydes scurry around gathering up hand-bags, guide- 
boolis, gloves, muffs, etc. Gertie and Betty go toward 
the door talking together.) 

Ella. Aha, Imogen Spayde, you took my blue stock- 
ings ! I looked high and low for them this morning and 
you knew it. Just because you have the brains of the 
family it doesn't follow that you can have the hosiery, too ! 
You'll just please give them right straight back ! 

Imogen {Jiatightily). You vulgar little thing ! 

Ella. Well, it looks to me pretty vulgar to go around 
flaunting other people's stockings in their faces 

Imogen. Ella Spayde ! 

Gertie. Girls ! Come, now. (Betty stands at the 
right of the door, and The Spaydes fortn a line opposite, 
bidding her good-bye, each with a kiss, one at a ti?ne.) 
Good-bye, Miss Winslow ! Now, don't forget — flaxseed and 
lemon, hot. And we'll come again next week, sure. Good- 
bye ! {She kisses her and passes her on to Eva.) 

Eva. Farewell, dearie ! I'll send you one of my an- 
nouncements. 

Imogen. Au revoir. Miss Winslow ! So happy to have 
made your acquaintance. I'll use you as the heroine of my 
first novel. 

The Twins (getting one on either side). So-long, Betty ! 
Had a grand time. 



BETTY S ANCESTORS 25 

Bella. I'm going to kiss her first, Ella Spayde ! 

Ella. You're no such thing, Bella Spayde ! 

Bella. I'm two hours older than you are, Ella Spayde ! 

Ella. I don't care if you are, Bella Spayde 

Gertie. Girls ! 

The Twins. Now, both together ! 

{They kiss her switiltaneously on either cheek.') 

Betty. Good-bye — good-bye ! Please come again ! 
The Spaydes. Yes, we will — you come and see us. 
Good-bye — good-bye 1 

( They disappear, still calling to her, the sowid receding doum 
the hatl. Betty, left alone, comes slowly forward and 
seats lierself in Madame Huntington' s chair. Slie takes 
the letter frofn her dress and holds it in her hands. The 
bell rings. Betty hastily conceals the letter and rises, as 
Debokah appears in the hall door.) 

Deborah. Mrs. Freddie Kitchens and her Ma ! 

(Mrs. Freddie Hitchens bustles in c.) 

Mrs. H. Oh, how de do? {Turns and calls hack.) 
Come on, Ma ! {To Betty.) We're building a new house, 
you know — Freddie said it was all nonsense, but I wouUln't 
hear o' nothin' else since Mis' Burrows put up hers — and I 
came on East to pick out furnishings — which is something 
she didn't do — and I thought while I was here I might as 
well look around at relics and things. {Calls.) Coming, 
Ma? Oh, here you be. (Ma appears, panting and wad- 
dli/i«;.) Well, you can sit right down — I guess the lady 
won't care. That's the first thing Ma wants to do when she 

gets anywheres Oh, I wouldn't sit on that chair, Ma ! 

(Ma has been about to sink her tveight onto an old mahogafiy 
chair with a worn seat and very slender curved legs.) I 
don't know as that would hold you. It looks sort of shaky 
anyhow — but I s'pose it's a relic. You sit over there on 
the sofa, Ma, and cool off. (Ma obeys gratefully, and 
throug/iout the folUnving continues business of untying bon- 
net strings, mopping face, loosening collar, finally pulling off 
one s/ioe and going noddingly to sleep.) I s'|)Ose this is Miss 
Winslow? Winslow? Where have I heard that name be- 
fore? Winslow, Winslow, Win Ma, where'd we know 



26 Betty's ancestors 

any Winslows? Oh — I know; of course. Soothing syrup. 
We give it to Rudolph Rassendyll when he was a baby — 
Mrs. VVinslow's Soothing Syrup. We named him for the 
Prisoner of Zenda — or was it the other fellow ? Well, dear 
me — are you any relation to that Mrs. Winslow? Oh, you're 
not ? 0-oh. A-h — excuse me, but is that the style of dress 
they're wearing now in the East? 

Betty. This? Oh, no ! This is a dress that belonged 
to my Great-great-Aunt Letitia. She wore it after her mar- 
riage while she was at the court of France. 

Mrs. H. Oh! Is that so? Well, 1 wondered! I al- 
ways make over old things when they get out of style. 
There's a lot of goods in that skirt. Wake up. Ma ! Well, 
1 guess perhaps you better show us the relics now. We 
ain't got any too much time. Will that chair hold me ? 

{Points to chair doiini i?.) 

Betty. Oh, yes. This chair was brought over from 
England more than two hundred years ago by my great- 
great-grandfather. 

Mrs. H. Is that so ? Don't you think you could varnish 
it ? Or maybe a good stain. I've done wonders on old 
truck with a walnut stain. 

Betty. I don't know — it is a shabby old thing. 

Mrs. H. {settling herself upon it). Wake up, Ma, and 
see the relics. 

Betty {pointing at the polished table, and speaking in 
the manner of one reciting from a ^uide-book). This was 
the table in constant use in this house as a dining table 
thioughout the lifetime of Col. George Winslow and of his 
daughter Letitia. Distinguished guests have partaken of re- 
freshments from its surface. Around it were gathered at 
one time General Washington, General Lee 

Mrs. H. Is that so? Our dining table will seat fifteen 
when it's spread out, and the leaves kind of fold back into 
its insides when we ain't using 'em. I always keep a center- 
piece on it — Cluny lace. Some folks likes a bare table; but 
I always tell 'em if you've got doilies, it's better to use 'em. 

Betty. I wish I had a table with — insides ! 

Mrs, H. Well — I was married ten years before I had 
one ! Ma-a ! 

Betty {indicating Madame Huntington'' s chair up R.). 
This is the chair in which Madame Huntington always sat 



BETTY S ANCESTORS 1"] 

while receiving visitors as mistress of this mansion. It is 
considered a very fine specimen of the furniture of the 
period. 

Mrs. H. Is that so? You know, I beheve if you'd take 
some cretonne and some tape and some gold-headed tacks 
you could make a real good bedroom chair out of that. 

Betty. Do you ? 

Mrs. H. They were telling me at the furniture store to- 
day that cretonne is all the go for bedrooms. (^Points to the 
old cups and saucers ofi the table. ^ Are them Haviland ? 

Betty. Those are Staffordshire, purple luster ware, and 
came from France. And the silver tankard is one made by 
Paul Revere. 

Mrs. H. Is that so? Well — I'm not one that thinks 
Haviland is the only thing there is ; but of course, if you 
don't have it, you aren't in it. But that silver must be 
awful hard to keep clean. I bought some of that Everwear 
Aluminum stuff and I guess it will. It's fine. I bought it 
of a young college fellow that was selling it vacations to 
make his way. Has he been here? 

Betty. No. I wish he would come ! 

Mrs. H. For land's sake ! Is that a spinning-wheel ? 
In the parlor? Ain't you got no attic ? 

Betty. We're all attic ! 

Mrs. H. Ma ! In another minute you'll be asleep. 
Well, now, can't we see some relics? 

Betty. Why, I don't — understand? 

Mrs. H. Some curiosities. These things are just old 
odds and ends of furniture. 

Betty. So they are ! 

Mrs. H. But I mean something unusual — something 
interesting. They call this the Winslow Museum of Colo- 
nial Antiquities and Relics. I want to see the museum. 

Betty. Oh ! Well — there's my grandfather's desk where 
he wrote his poems. 

Mrs. H. Freddie has a roller top desk with a type- 
writer that rolls up too. 

Betty. And then there is Great-great-Aunt Letilia's 
glove. 

Mrs. H. Who is this Great-great-Aunt Letitia we hear 
so much about ? 

Betty. She was the only child of Colonel Winslow and 
a great beauty. She was full of spirits and had many lovers, 



28 Betty's ancestors 

and she married Ephraim Huntington, who became minister 
to France, you know, and after that she grew dignified and 
liaughty and never played pranks nor laughed much. 
Would you like to see her portrait? {^She goes np i.. and 
lifts the heavy drapery in such a way that the supposed por- 
trait is concealed from the audience.^ We have to keep 
them covered because some people like pieces of the frame 
for souvenirs. 

Mrs. H. {who has followed'). Well, if she was dressed up 
she would be rather pretty looking. {^Follows Betty to the 
portrait opposite. ) And that's the minister, is it ? Pretty gay 
for a preacher, I should say, and I don't wonder she quit 
laughing much. I don't like those little, stuck on-theirselves 
men. Freddie's too fat, and gettin' fatter every day, but I 
tell 'em there's worse things than double chins and he's 
good-natured anyhow. So are the children, but they get 
that from me. What did you say you had of hers ? 

Betty, I'll show you. {She goes to the table and takes 
from a drawer a carved wooden box. Within are fnany 
folds of soft paper, and parting these with great care, she 
takes out a long kid glove, once 7vhite, butnowyelhnvedwitk 
age.) This is the glove which Great-great-Aunt Letitia wore 
at the great ball which her father. Colonel Winslow, gave 
in this house in honor of General La Fayette, the distin- 
guished Frenchman ; and when he led her through the 
minuet, this glove was upon the hand he touched. It has 
been carefully preserved from that time to this as a memento 
of the famous visitor. 

Mrs. H. Is that so? Well, that's a queer notion — 
keeping one glove — I don't see what good it would do any- 
body unless there was a pair. What became of the other 
one ? 

Betty {as if struck with a new idea). Why, I don't 
know. I never heard of the other glove. 

Mrs. H. {preparing to leave). Well, if I'd been that 
Letitia and had had my pick, I'd have taken a man with 
some ginger to him. A girl like that ought to have a lively, 
wide-awake, up-and-coming sort of man — you know the 
kind I mean. 

Betty. Yes. 

Mrs. H. Looks to me 's if she made a mistake. Well, 
come on. Ma — we want to get back before tlie stores close. 
Ma ! Well, will you look at that ! If she hasn't took her 



BETTY S ANCESTORS 



29 



shoe off again ! Every time we stop anywheres long enougli 
to sit down, off comes that shoe. Ma! {O/i Iter knees.) 
Stick out your foot ! 

Ma (^gradually coming to). Shucks! I must o' dropped 
off! 

{Jlnd promptly does so again 7vhile her daughter struggles 
with the shoe.) 

Mrs. H. Do you — stiffen up, Ma ! — do you run this 
museum for your living? 

Betty. Why — yes. That is, the Historical Society 
keeps up the house on condition that I keep it open once a 
week. I — am very poor. 

Mrs. H. Is that so? I thought things was sort of run 
down. Well, if I was you I'd sell off all this truck and take 
the money and go somewheres and start a chicken farm. 

Betty. Oh, I wish I could ! 

Mrs. H. Well, I don't see as there's anything to prevent 
you. (^Rises and shakes her mother.) Come on, Ma ! 
Spruce up now ! Well, I'm sure I'm much obliged to you, 
and if you're ever in Medina, New York, come and see me. 
Ma — for goodness' sake, don't wabble so! And you know. 
Miss VVinslow, if I was you I'd look around careful and 
maybe you'll find that other glove. Now, Ma, stand still 
wiiile I set your bonnet straight. I declare you're worse 'n 
Rudolph Rassendyll to take around. You go ahead now or 
we'll never get there. Well, good-bye. Miss Winslow — stop 
and see us if you're ever out our way. Go on now, Ma, 
straight ahead 

(^Exif, c, pushing Ma. Her voice dies atvay doivn the 
hall.) 

(Betty goes to the portrait of Letitia, up l., lifts the 
drapery as before, and stands looking intently at the 
picture. Deborah enters with dust cloth, dust pan and 
broom.) 

Deborah. All I've got to say is, if any more of those 
impudent, sassy, nosey, un-speak-able wimmen are allowed 
in this house, you've got to attend to 'em, for I won't. I 
simply can't do it. It's an awful thing — a-n-aw-ful thing — 
that a nice respectable lot of Revolutionary relics can't be 
put on display without drawing down on their heads an 



30 



BETTY S ANCESTORS 



avalanche of old maids and widows from dear knows where! 
That's all I've got to say ! {^She wields broom or cloth 
vigorously as s)ie discovers traces of the aforesaid maids 
and zvidows.) They're not ladies, that's all I've got to say 
for 'em. There's not a mite of a lady about 'em. Oh, I 
heard that last one — talking about varnish and tables wid: 
insides and ciiicken farms and giving you notions — a nice 
combination, that's all I've got to say ! 

Betty {dropping the curtain and coming forivard^. 
Debbie, what do you suppose became of Aunt Lelida's 
other glove? 

Deborah. For the love of goodness, what you thinking 
about that for ? 

Betty. 1 have to have something to think about. I 
can't go on just thinking "Texas, Texas, Texas" all the 
time ! 

Deborah {putting down the broom and coming behind 
the girl to draw her back into her arms). Come here, 
dearie, and tell Deb about it. 

Betty. Oh, Debbie, I'm so sick of being a relic. I'd 
so much rather be just a girl. Oh, I wish I could live in a 
kitchenette apartiiient and run a vacuum cleaner and go lo 
moving-picture shows ! Everybody else has something — 
bisters and twins and Freddies — and I haven't anything, 
n-not aa-nything but you ! 

Deborah {rocking her in her arms^. There, there, 
there, there now ! Now, pretty, tell me — tell Deb — do you 
love this Jamie — this cowboy ? 

Betty. He was so — funny. Deb; and alive. And so 
big and sunburned. I never saw a man in my life except 
college professors until — he — came — that day. And he 
made me feel as if I were living now instead of a hundred 
years ago. And now he's gone — he's gone back to that 
horrid Texas — and how do I know, in a little bit of a place 
like that, but one of those Mexicans will shoot him? {Hys- 
terical, wails on Deborah's shoulder.') Oh, Deb, he's 
gone — he's gone ! {Straightens up suddenly and stamps 
her foot.) How did he dare go like that? And what do I 
care for ancestors? I'd like to go right straight down to 
Texas and — and — t-tell him so ! 

{The last 7t>ords another wail on Deborah's shoulder.) 
Deborah. Now, see here, dearie — now, now, now ! 



BETTY S ANCESTORS 



31 



Listen to Deb — there, that's her little lamb ! Now, you sit 
right down here in your great-great-aunt's chair — and liere's 
your hankie, — now, you sit right there and forget all about 
liim, and Deb will go out and cook you the finest piece of 
chicken you ever ale, and stewed peaches with whii)ped 
cream ! And chocolate out of the Louis Napoleon cup ! 
And then you'll have a big long sleep, and to-morrow you'll 
be just all right ! 

Betty {ivinking and choking back her sobs). Y-yes — 
to-morrow. Deb. Lll be — be all right t-to-morrow. 

Deborah {looking back from the door). Sure, dearie? 

Betty. Sure, Deb. 0\\- — Debbie, did you say chicken? 

Deborah. Yes, pretty. 

Betty. Save me the wisli bone. (Deborah goes out l. 
Betty comes down r. and sits at t/ie table, lier sobs gradually 
subsiding. Presently she leans her elbows on t/ie table and 
rests her head on her hands. It grows dusk in the room. 
The historic glove lies Just in front of her. She rouses 
herself presently, and takes up the glove in one hand. ) 
Poor old thing ! I'll grow wrinkled and yellow and Ump 
just like that. (^//.? leans her cheek on the hand holding the 
glove and speaks dreamily, with her eyes closed.) You've 
lost your mate, too. Mine has gone to Texas. [Slie 
stretches her arm along the table, looking at the glove. ) I 
wonder — where — yours is ? 

{Her head sinks down to rest o?i the extended arm. She 
covers her eyes with the other hand and sits very still. 
The room grows dimmer and dimmer. Presently a strain 
of niusic is heard, very faint, as though far away — the 
music of an old time dance in stately rhythm, played on the 
spinet or violin. Any old En^^lish ballad ivill serve, or 
the minuet music from '■'■ Don Jiian.^^ Then the curtains 
before the portrait of Great-great- Aunt Letitia are seen 
to sway, to part, and the old time beauty steps forth, very 
cautiously, lifting the skirt of her satin gown and peer- 
ing over her shoulder as if she fears pursuit. She has 
taken but a few steps into the room when from door c. 
James O'Mara, handsome, dashing, ardent, enters, 
strides forward and falls on one knee before her.) 

O'Mara. Ah, mistress ! Sure 'tis the breath of life to 
see you here ! 



32 



BETTY S ANCESTORS 



Letitia. No, no ! In truth, you should grieve, sn-, 
that I have done as you begged me and left my father's 
guests to meet you here. 

O'Mara. 'Tis the guests are grieving, sweet, not I ! 
Ah, Lettie — was it much to ask — ^just a look at that sweet 
face and a word to carry with me — when to-morrow I lose 
both forever ? (^Rises and takes her hand.^ 

Letitia. To-morrow? 

O'Mara.- Ay, to-morrow, sweetheart. Think you I 
would stay and dance with the guests when Mistress Letitia 
Winslow weds with Ephraim Huntington ? By that time, 
and God wills, I'll be well on my way across the mountains 
to the new lands of the West, where every man is as good as 
he can make himself, and 'tishimself and not his grandfather 
that folk ask about ! Ah, forgive me, love; but sure it fair 
maddens me to think that for the accident of your father 
owning the land and mine working it, and your folk belong- 
ing to England and mine to Ireland, I'd take you with me, 
Lettie — take you, my own, my bride, my wife — across the 
mountains, into a land of our own 

( Unnoticed by the lovers, the curtains before the portrait of 
Ephraitn Huntington, up R., have parted, and he has en- 
tered the room and stands listening J) 

Letitia {sadly). You forget, Jamie. Even were there 
no other barrier between us, I am the promised bride of 
Ephraim Huntington. 

Ephraim Huntington {coming forward and making her 
an ironical bow). A fact whiciryou, also, mistress, forget, 
methinks. (Letitia, ?// L., shrinks back zvith a faint cry. 
O'Mara, up c, stands his ground, a hand on his hilt. 
Huntington, up k., looking them over with a cool sneer, 
draws a snuff box from his pocket and proceeds to an elab- 
orate pinch.) A thousand pardons for interrupting so amia- 
ble a meeting ! I wish merely to remind Mistress Winslow 
— and by the by, Lettie, drat me, but you are charming to- 
night ! — to remind the lady, and you, too, sir, that it is un- 
usual for the betrothed of one man to meet another — er — 
clandestinely — ah, you object to the word, sir? Let us say 
— privately — privately 

O'Mara {hotly). I do object to the word I You are 
offensive, sir ! 



BETTY S ANCESTORS 



33 



Huntington. And you, my excellent fellow, if you will 
pardon my saying so, are — amusing. 

O'Mara. Amusing? Have a care 

Huntington. Oh — softly ! Surely, if either of us is to 
have a care, it is not I ! 

O'Mara. Nor is it I ! I've done nothing for which I'll 
not answer with my life. My heart's my own, sir, and if it's 
jumped out of my breast and to the feet of the sweetest lady 
on God's footstool, no man shall question its right to lie 
there ! A poor devil of a soldier, sir, wounded almost to 
the death, I was carried to her door, and she nursed me like 
an angel of mercy back to strength and life ; and if I love 
her, sure 'tis no more than any man with blood in his veins 
must do ! 

Huntington. Then you do in truth, sir — ah — love my 
promised bride? 

O'Mara. I love Mistress Letitia Winslow ! 

Huntington. Exactly. And you, mistress, do you in 
turn, if I may ask — ah — love this man ? 

Letitia Qifthig her face from her hatids). Oh, I pray 
you 

O'Mara {cottihig to her and taking her hands). Lettie ! 
Fear nothing, sweetheart. The blame alone is mine. But 
I charge you, if you know your heart, answer truly. Do you 
love me ? 

Letitia (tneeting his eyes). Yes. 

(O'Mara bends his head and hiys his face against her hand.) 

Huntington. So this is the man — this soldier of fortune, 
this Irish adventurer, this nobody from across the seas, the 
son of a peasant, this would-be Western pioneer with scarce 
a coat to his back or a shelter to his head — this is the man 
whom Mistress Letitia Winslow loves ? 

{During this speech O'Mara has drawn back, looking hum- 
bly, beseechingly at Letitia, ivhose cheeks have flushed 
with anger, and whose indignation, conquering for the 
moment her timidity, sparkles in her eyes. She faces 
Huntington boldly, a hand on O'Mara's sleeve.) 

Letitia. Yes. This is the man I love ! 
Huntington. Ah ! And this — (Japping his breast) is 
the man you will wed. 



34 BETTY S ANCESTORS 

O'Mara. What ! Surely you'd not hold her to a prom- 
ise made years ago before she knew her heart, now that she 
confesses love for another ! Why, man, think 

Huntington (^dropping his sneer and affectation of in- 
difference). Think ? I do think — of the sneers of the town, 
the laughter of the court. What? " Ephraim Huntington 
jilted? And for an Irish adventurer without name or for- 
tune? The foremost man of the colony thrown aside by a 
chit of a girl ? " Zounds ! 'Tis insufferable ! The papers 
are drawn — 'tis known far and wide — this house settled upon 
her as a wedding gift — and now for a whim, a mood, for 
love throw it away ? No ! I hold her to her promise. 

O'Mara. You — you refuse 

Huntington. I do refuse ! ( With an abrupt rettirn to 
his former manner.^ And that being the case, there re- 
mains but one more contingency. You say, mistress, that 
you love this man ? You have promised to wed with me. 
Will you break your promise ? 

{There is a pause. Letitia, white and shaken, looks from 
O'Mara, standing with bowed head, to Huntington, 7vho 
fingers his lace ruffles and looks at her steadily with his 
slight, s fleering smile.) 

Letitia. No ! 

(O'Mara turns sharply away. Huntington laughs and 
botvs to her. The girl stands perfectly tnotionless.') 

Huntington. Ah ! My dear Lettie, you gratify me. I 
feel that you are indeed worthy to be — my wife. And — 
may I be permitted to suggest, sir, that under the circum- 
stances — the — er — distressing circumstances, there is really 
nothing for you to do but to — go? (O'Mara rouses him- 
self. He wraps his cloak more closely around his shoulders 
and tvithoiit turning toivard the two strides to the door. 
But there he hesitates, turns back, and comes slowly to 
Letitia, whose eyes are fixed upon him. Without speaking 
a word, he kneels before her, takes the hand she extends to 
him, and lifts it to his lips. At last he rises, and without 
word or glance for either, hastily leaves the roojn. Letitia 
stands perfectly still looking down at the hand he has kissed. 
After a mornent Huntington rouses himself, arid with an 
ugly laugh points at the glove upon that hand.) Take it off ! 



BETTY S ANCESTORS 



35 



Letitia. You mean 

Huntington. The glove! Give it me! (Letitia, 
shrinking from hwi, takes the g!ovefroni her ha7id and gives 
it to him.) Ah 1 A little token I shall keep, mistress, in 
memory of this interesting conversation and its — ah — occa- 
sion ! {Refolds the glove, puts it ifi an itmer pocket of his 
coat, a?id bows prof otciidly.') I trust, my love, that you will 
never have occasion to use — the other glove. {Smiling, 
watching her keenly as she quivers under the insult, he steps 
back to the curtains tlirough w/iich he had made his entrance.) 
I wish you good-night, mistress — and pleasant dreams ! 

{He parts the curtains, steps bettveen, makes another pro- 
found bono, and disappears. Letitia stands quite still 
until he has gone, then moves fearfully, glances over her 
shoulder and about the room, and wrings her hands 7vith 
a faint moan.) 

. Letitia. My glove — my glove — my one white glove ! 
Oh, he will never let me forget it — never, never — ^— {She 
comes fortvard stealthily and bends above the motionless form 
of Betty.) Hush ! Don't let thein hear me — don't let 
them know ! But some day, from the West, will come again 
Jamie O'Mara ! And you — you will be happy. But 1 — oh, 
my glove — he has my glove — my glove — {she ivanders 

away) oh, cruel, cruel {She pauses in front of the 

portrait of Letitia.) Hark ! He is coming — he is coming 
— from the West ! But not for me — oh, not for me — never, 
never 

{She disappears. The curtains swing for a moment, the 
music dies aiuay. Then all is quiet. The door of the 
inner room opens. Deborah enters carrying a lighted 
candle. She puts it on the table and bends over Betty. ) 

Deborah. Asleep! Poor little child ! {The door -bell 
rings suddenly, violently. With a gesture of irritation, 
Deborah goes to ansiver it. Betty springs to her feet with 
a cry. She sees the glove in her hand and stares at it in a 
daze. The bell continues a steady peal. Betty snatches 
up the candle and runs back to the portrait of Great-great- 
Aunt Letitia. As she lays her hand on the curtain, Deb- 
orah bursts open the hall door. Deborah almost incoherent 
with excitement.) Betty — Betty — Betty — he's come back ! 



o6 Betty's ancestors 

Bettv. Come back ? 

Deborah. That cowboy. He says " Darn the ancestors ! 
I want my girl ! " 

{^Overcome with emotion, Debokah flings her apron over 
her head, sits on the couch and rocks back and forth in 
iningledjoy and despair.^ 

Betty. Oh — Aunt Letitia ! 

{She swings the ciirtains entirely aside, and Letitia, in a 
stiff, old-fas fiioned pose, is fully revealed. Betty backs 
slozvly toward R., holding candle high above her head, and 
gazes at the picture. O'Mara, in cap and ulster, ap- 
pears at door c.) 

O'Mara. Betty ! 

(^Without a word Betty, tip r., turns to him aftd extends 
her hand. He co7nes for^vard, drops on his knee, and 
lifts the hand to his lips. Betty looks smiling straight 
into the eyes of Great-great- Aunt Letitia. The curtain 
slowly falls.') 



CURTAIN 




Practical Elocution 

By J, W. Shoemaker, A. M 

300 pages 

Goth, Leather Back, $1.25 

This work is the outgrowth oii 
actual class-room experience, an«l 
is a practical, common-sense treat 
ment of the whole subject. It is 
clear and concise, yet comprehen- 
sive, and is absolutely free frcwn 
the entangling technicalities that are so frequently 
found in books of this class. 

Conversation, which is the basis of all true Elocu- 
tion, is regarded as embracing all the germs o{ 
speech and action. Prominent attention is therefore 
given to the cultivation of this the most common 
form of human expression. 

General principles and practical processes are pre 
sented for the cultivation of strer.gth, purity, and 
flexibility of Voice, for the improvement of distinct 
ness and correctness in Articulation, and for the 
development of Soul power in delivery. 

The work includes a systematic treatment of Ges- 
ture in its several departments of position, facial 
expression, and bodily movement, a brief system of 
Gymnastics bearing upon vocal development and 
grace of movement, and also a chapter on Methods 
jf Instruction, for teachers. 

Sold by all booksellers, or sent, prepaid, upon f*- 
geipt af price. 

The Penn Publishing Company 

226 5. nth Street, Philadelphln 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




The Power of 



Expression and efficiency go hand ii 
The power of clear and forceful . 016 103 ^431 9 P 
dence and poise at all times — in private gatherings, in public 
discussion, in society, in business. 

It is an invaluable asset to any man or woman. It can often 
be turned into money, but it is always a real joy. 

In learning to express thought, we learn to command 
thought itself, r.nd thought is power. You can have this 
power if you will. 

Whoever has the power of clear expression is always sure 
of himself. 

The power of expression leads to : 

The ability to think "on your feet" 

Successful public speaking 

Efifective recitals 

The mastery over other minds 

Social prominence 

Business success 

Efficiency in any undertaking 

Are these things worth while ? 

They are all successfully taught at The National School of 
Elocution and Oratory, which during many years has de- 
veloped this power in hundreds of men and women. 

A catalogue giving full information as to how any of these 
accomplishments may be attained will be sent free on request. 

THE NATIONAL SCHOOL OF 
ELOCUTION AND ORATORY 

Parkway Building Philadelphia 



